Nightlights Aren't Gonna Cut It
by Emery3842
Summary: Dean Winchester knew how to fight the things that went bump in the night. Even during the worst nights, he never worried because sunrise was never far off and everything looked better in the light of day. But, what happens when even that small comfort is taken away from him?
1. Chapter 1

**Hey everyone! I have been trying for weeks to write something, but every time I start, I crumble the paper up in dissatisfaction. Then, last night this popped into my head and begged to be written. So, I am hoping this gets the creative juices flowing once again. This chapter alternates between present and flashbacks (about three weeks before). **

**Warnings: Language (that's all I can think of at the moment).**

**Takes place in season 2. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Everyone assured him that apart from the new addition of a scruffy beard, he didn't look any different. His eyebrows still furrowed when he thought something, or someone, was stupid. His jawline still looked like it was chiseled out of ice. His eyes were the same bright hazel that had always drawn girls in, despite their better judgment.

They told him that nothing had changed.

Well, fuck them.

* * *

_Rock Springs, Wyoming_

"Come on, Dean!" Sam huffed out a breath as he watched his older brother meander through their motel room, looking for his other sock. First, Dean had taken forever to wake up, then he had spent half an hour in the shower (doing what, Sam didn't want to touch with a ten foot pole), and now that he was finally out, he set one of his socks down and couldn't find it again.

"Just grab another sock!" Sam ordered, pointing towards Dean's duffle bag.

"I don't need to 'grab another sock', I have a sock…I just can't find it right now," Dean said, lifting up his pillow for the third time.

"Well, I doubt it's under the damn pillow," Sam snapped. "Did you look under the beds?"

Dean's head emerged from behind the nightstand and he immediately rolled his eyes, "Of course I did." He pointed at Sam, "You could help me you know, we would find it faster and then we could get out of here."

"Just grab another sock!" Sam reiterated, refusing to budge from his position leaning against the door frame. Dean lost his sock in the time that it took him to stand up, one shoe on, walk to the bathroom to grab his necklace that he had taken off for showering, and return to the bed where his other boot was. It seemed impossible that he could lose it that quickly, but since he had, Sam certainly wasn't going to help him out. It was a lesson in being responsible.

…At least, that was what Sam told himself when his lips quirked upwards as he watched Dean shake out the sheets for the second time.

"They wouldn't match then," Dean almost whined. A creature of comfort he wasn't; hell, he didn't even care if his clothes were clean half the time, but mismatched socks? Hell no. There was just something about the way they felt under his toes that would bug him the whole day.

"Then grab another pair," Sam reasoned. "Jesus, Dean, this isn't difficult. By the time you find the damn sock, the monster is going to have died of old age."

* * *

_Bobby's House_

"Are you going to do anything today?"

He couldn't help but wonder if it was possible to have concern and judgment in the same question. And which one should he reply to? Concern was tricky, it was all feelings and 'I'm here for you, Dean'. Judgment just made him bitter and angry. Those were definitely emotions he could get behind. Although, to be fair, the concern pissed him off quite a bit as well. Best to keep it simple, "Not planning on it."

Dean didn't even have to look at his brother to know that Bitch Face #7, or "I'm trying to help, don't be a dick", was plastered across Sam's face. It was rapidly followed by Sigh #2, or "Why do I even bother, you won't listen to me anyways".

"You can't just sit there for the rest of your life. If you stay in Bobby's living room much longer, he is going to start using you as a shelf for more books," Sam tried to throw in some humor, but even as the words formed, he knew they were going to fall flat. And they did, only receiving an uncaring shrug.

"Dean, come on, man," Sam was almost to the point of begging, and far passed caring if he did. "Give me something to work with here."

A snort of disbelief escaped Dean before he could stop it, "There is _nothing_ left to work with, Sam. When are you gonna get that through your thick head?"

* * *

"Half an hour later," Sam mumbled as Dean turned the Impala out of the motel parking lot.

Dean wagged a finger in his brother's direction, "Once again, if you had just helped me look, we would have been out of there quicker."

Sam shook his head and slapped his brothers finger away from him, "How about next time, you don't randomly carry your sock into the bathroom and then knock it off of the counter and into the garbage can?"

"Eh, next time I'll just grab a new pair of socks," Dean smirked as Sam tossed him Bitch Face #1, the one he had perfected at the age of seven and Dean would crack the worst jokes every time he started worrying about when their dad would get back. The exact title had changed over the years, but it was basically, "You're the only one who thinks you're funny.'

Dean reached across the bench seat and lightly punched Sam in the arm, "Lighten up, Sammy. The sun is shining, the girls are wearing dresses, and we know where our monster is. What could possibly make this day suck?"

* * *

The sun was shining brightly, almost mocking the dark atmosphere inside the house, as Sam stepped off of the back porch and made his way towards where he knew Bobby was working on his latest project.

Once he reached the car, he allowed his body to sink down onto the old fold out chair that Bobby had placed near the hood.

"How's our little ray of sunshine doin' in there?" Bobby asked him, his head shoved under the hood.

Sam ground his teeth together and his knee bounced rapidly in frustration. "I…he…"

He stood up abruptly and started pacing, the rickety chair falling over in his rush to expel some of the energy coursing through him. "He's doing horrible, Bobby! What did you expect?"

Bobby paused his tightening of the fan belt and glanced up out of the corner of his eyes. Sam looked like a caged animal, his hair had gone from shaggy to wild, his muscles bunched up with every step, like he was going to pounce on something, and he looked like he hadn't eaten or slept in days.

He really should've expected Sam to turn on him the moment he caught his gaze.

"Which, you would know if you ever bothered to go in and talk to him!" Sam stepped closer to the old hunter, everything in his body was screaming at him. For the past three weeks he had watched as Dean shut down. Everything that made his older brother, Dean, disappeared. He didn't even bother with snarky comments anymore.

He had never really realized how much of him, how he defined himself, had come from his older brother. In some ways, he was the antithesis of his brother; they worked to balance each other. Dean kept Sam from having his head up his ass, Sam kept Dean from always putting his foot in his mouth.

From food, to girls, to music, they were often polar opposites. He would often gripe about how immature Dean was, or how he shouldn't do this or that…but, when it came down to it, all the things that made him who he was, had come from Dean.

Sam would never be able to express that to Dean, it wasn't the way they worked. How do you tell someone who was firmly in the no chick-flick moments category that deep down, they were the person you tried to emulate?

It was never going to happen.

So, the question was, what do you do when that person disappears?

* * *

"This!" Sam shouted as they ducked around an overturned table in time for a chair to sail over their heads and smash against the wall.

"What!?" Dean questioned loudly over the roar of the monster, checking his gun to see how many more bullets he had.

"This! This could make our day suck! This sucks!" Sam answered Dean's question from earlier, peaking around the table to see the ogre looking monster start to lose interest in them and turn back to where he knew a small family of three was cowering in a closet.

"Nonsense, this is fun!" Dean flashed him a smile, noticing the same thing that Sam had. "Now, what do you say we gank this son of a bitch and get the hell out of here?"

* * *

"I've talked to him," Bobby defended, turning back to the car.

"That's bullshit, Bobby, and you know it," Sam snapped as he tried to burn a hole through Bobby's head with his glare.

Bobby wished that he could say Sam was wrong, but he had been hiding outside as much as possible lately. At first he had tried to get through to Dean, tried to reason with him, tell him that it wasn't that bad, that everything would be okay in the end. But, the kid wasn't stupid, and even Bobby couldn't believe the crap lies that everyone was telling him. It wasn't okay, it wasn't going to be okay. It sucked, it was so god damn unfair that no words could describe it and he couldn't watch it anymore.

* * *

"Dean!"

Anyone who had been in a real fight could tell you, the movies had it all wrong. Things were rarely as simple as the hero stomping his way through enemies, slicing them down, walking away unscathed, except for a small token cut above the eyebrow.

In reality, it was like someone pressed the fast forward button, but forgot to tell your brain. When things got sticky, you had to rely purely on your body to carry you through, no thinking, no second guessing, just reacting. So, when a big, smelly ogre monster runs at your little brother, the first thing your body does is shove him out of the way and take the hit.

It was really too bad that said brother had been standing near the second floor glass balcony door. Even worse that ogre monsters (he would really have to figure out what the hell it was called), hit like an offensive tackle on steroids, strapped to a moving train. And the crappiest part? When his body flew through the glass, clipped the balcony rails with his head, and then plunged down to the brick patio in the backyard.

* * *

Sam paused in the doorway to allow his eyes to readjust to the dim living room, only coming in after he garnered a promise from Bobby to come in and check on Dean in a while. He understood where Bobby was coming from, why he was hiding outside. Every time he tried to start up a conversation with Dean, hell, even when he just looked at him, his stomach turned over and guilt spread throughout him. Dean wouldn't be in this position if it wasn't for him. He was the one who didn't move quickly enough and Dean was the one to pay the price.

"I need more alcohol," Dean's voice shook Sam out of his thoughts and instantly put a scowl on his face.

"No, you don't," Sam corrected, having already gone through this the day before.

"Yes, I do," Dean all but growled at him, his nails biting into the palm of his hand. Why didn't Sam get it?

Unshed tears sprung to Sam's eyes as he took in his brother. He couldn't do it; he couldn't put the final nail in Dean's coffin. He just didn't understand where the fight went. His brother had never backed down from anything, but here he was, just giving up, content to live out the rest of his days drowning in booze.

Well, if he wanted to kill himself, then he could do it on his own. "There's some whisky in the third cupboard from the fridge, if you want it, go get it yourself."

* * *

"Mr. Weston?"

"That's me," Sam said quickly, immediately abandoning the waiting room chair to stand in front of the doctor. "How is he?"

"If you come with me, we can discuss your brother's a little more privately," the doctor gestured with his arm towards an office.

Sam didn't wait for the door to click shut before he began to bombard Dean's doctor with questions, "How is he? Is he going to be okay? When can I see him?"

"One question at a time," the doctor smiled as warmly as he could in order to put Sam at ease.

Sam wished the doctor would spend less time smiling and more time explaining.

"You can see him as soon as we are done in here. He woke up for a few minutes and we were able to examine him, we had to give him some painkillers, so he's currently sleeping."

"Why did you have to give him painkillers? What's wrong with him?" Sam jumped to the point.

"Mr. Weston, the back of the head contains the occipital lobes, which are responsible for sight."

"I…I don't understand," Sam said lamely. The logical part of his brain was screaming the answer at him, but the rest of him told logic to shut the hell up.

"Your brother hit his head very hard, which has caused increased intracranial pressure," the doctor paused to make sure that Sam was following him.

"Which means, what?" Sometimes being dense was safer than admitting the truth.

"Well, we weren't sure until he woke up and we ran some tests, but at the moment, the increased pressure on the occipital lobes has caused your brother to lose his eyesight."

"I…that's not…there's no way that…," Sam's breathing rose rapidly and he could feel the room start to spin.

* * *

_A few hours later_

"S'mmy?"

"Dean?! Dean, can you hear me?" Sam asked frantically, staring at his brother, waiting for any kind of response.

"Course," Dean's voice came out more gravelly than usual.

Sam's face lit up and as Dean's eyes flickered open, he let himself hope that the doctor had been wrong, that it was all some horrible mistake.

He should have remembered that hope and Winchesters never go well together.

"S'mmy, lights?" Dean asked, knowing Sam would understand that he wanted the lights turned on so he could make sure that the ugly ogre thing hadn't done any damage to Sam.

"Uh…" Sam panicked and trailed off. How was he going to explain this? This was going to destroy his brother. Ever since he was a kid, he had been protecting people. How was Dean going to react when he found out that he couldn't even tell what color the waitress's hair was?

It turned out that he wouldn't have to because Dean's doctor had taken that moment to walk in and check on Dean.

Dean listened as all the machines he was hooked up to went crazy at the revelation that he was blind. He caught phrases like "fleeting blindness" and "if the swelling decreases", but none of the words mattered. The only thing he could concentrate on was the fact that he could feel himself blinking, could feel the slight flutter of his eyelashes on his cheeks, but it no longer mattered whether his eyes were opened or closed.

* * *

"Hey, Sammy?"

Sam hesitated with one foot on the stairs; he was determined to comb through their dad's journal once again to see if there was anything that could help Dean. He half hoped that this was when Dean finally snapped out of it and talked to him, "Yeah, Dean?"

"Go fuck yourself."

Yeah, Winchesters and hope.

* * *

**Let me know if you think this is worth continuing!**


	2. Chapter 2

Alright...so that was a bit of a lackluster reception. Thanks a bunch to princeofthefallingangels for your review and to those who alerted and favorited this story! While I have ideas for this story, I have to admit that to continue, I'm going to need some more feedback on what people are thinking. Even if it is just a quick review, please let me know if this is worth continuing or if I should scrap it.

Enjoy!

* * *

Pie, hamburger, even steak. It didn't matter what Sam tried to tempt his brother with, he was always met with the same cold silence, followed by, 'I'm not hungry'.

Those words ranked up there with 'Sam, I'm getting married,' for least likely to ever be said by Dean. For the past few weeks that they had been holed up at Bobby's, waiting and praying for the day that Dean woke up and announced he could see again, Sam had pestered his brother into eating. At first just offering the food, then threatening to shove it down his throat, and then finally resorting to begging.

It was the begging that pushed Dean to fumble around for the fork that Sam had left on the coffee table and shakily pick it up. The threats he could ignore, for all his words, Sam wouldn't really try to hold him down right now, he would feel too bad afterwards. But the begging coupled with the tell-tale nasally sound that Sam got right before the tears started, weren't ignored so easily.

It felt like it was the last play of a game, one goal down; he could feel Bobby and Sam staring at him and wished that he was cruel enough, or in a bad enough mood to snap at them. But all of his energy was on the pity party he threw earlier in the afternoon, which had resulted in a pile of Bobby's books being knocked over and randomly thrown across the room.

However, as he blindly stabbed around his plate, he could feel his frustration growing once more.

"It's...a little to the..." Sam quietly tried to help.

"I'm not four, Sam!" Dean didn't hesitate to throw the useless fork in the direction he heard his brother's voice come from. There was a pause where no one breathed, waiting to see what would happen next.

Then, as if he didn't just have something thrown at him, Sam moved to stand up, "I'll get you another fork."

And there it was, the breaking point. "I don't want another fucking fork! I'm not even hungry! I just want you to leave me alone!"

Dean emphasized his point by picking up his plate and hurling it in the same direction as his fork. The sound of the plate shattering against the far wall pissed him off even more because it meant he had missed.

"Dean, you need to..." Bobby interjected, judging by the wide-eyed look Sam had going on that he wasn't going to be much help at the moment.

"If you say I need to calm down," Dean growled out, letting his threat trail off because honestly, what was he going to do? Throw some more things like a petulant child?

"Fine, don't," Bobby said, brushing some chicken from one of his books. "Sam, go grab one of those protein drinks out of the frig."

"Can you?" Sam asked, not taking his eyes off of Dean who had thrown himself back against the couch and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I asked you to," Bobby insisted, walking over to Sam to put a hand on his shoulder. He waited until Sam looked at him before he send a nod towards the kitchen.

The breath that Sam released clearly indicated his annoyance, but he made for the kitchen anyways.

Once Sam had crossed over into the kitchen, Bobby called out, "Could you also make some coffee?"

The cupboard door slamming, followed by the tap turning on were the only responses he got.

Two moody, albeit deservedly moody, Winchesters. How in the world did he get so lucky? Plopping himself down on the couch next to Dean, he remembered how.

He chose it.

* * *

When John had shown up asking about the supernatural all those years ago, Bobby had taken one look at six-year-old Dean carrying Sam and had told John to get a nice, safe day job.

The look John had pinned him with should have made him close his door immediately. He probably would have if he didn't think that John would stand outside all night until Bobby relented.

In the end, it wasn't John's pig-headedness that made him step aside, it was Dean's. He didn't know from experience, but apparently holding your wiggling brother in the cold wasn't a walk in the park. After two minutes of struggling to keep a hold of Sam, Dean completely ignored the silent battle of wills that his dad and the stranger were having and slid passed into the warmth that the house offered.

"Dean!" John had shouted as Bobby spun around, his jaw slack at the gall of the kid.

"Boy, what do ya think you're doin'?"

Dean finally lowered his package to the ground, rolling his eyes as upon reaching his goal of getting down, Sammy immediately threw his arms up and silently asked Dean to pick him up again. Lightly batting the questing hands away from his jacket, Dean looked at his dad and the stranger, confident in his actions.

"You were gonna let us in," Dean told the man, knowing that his dad always got what he wanted in the end. "And Sammy was cold."

"Dean, you know better than to go into strange houses!" John reprimanded, a bit more harshly than he intended, seeing as he was trying to gain access in the first place. But, every time that he didn't have control of the situation, panic raced through his body. He was the only person his boys had left, it was up to him to keep them safe.

"You're standing right there, dad," Dean's exasperated voice clearly indicated his position on the thought processes of adults. He looked down at his brother again, shaking his head stubbornly, "I'm not pickin' you back up, Sammy. You wanted down."

Bobby had to remind himself to close his mouth. This evening was supposed to consist of drowning himself in some piss poor whiskey, not having a newbie hunter and his two snot machines inviting themselves in. When his mind finally gained control of the situation, Bobby shook his head, "Yeah, you'll be pickin' him up again and then you lot are gonna get the hell out of my house."

"Hell's a bad word," Dean said smartly, his lips quirking just enough so that the innocent comment seemed like something more.

Sure enough, the long-winded sigh that issued from the tall man next to him said that this was nothing new, "Dean, don't say hell."

"I know the rule, dad," Dean insisted. "I was just telling him so he wouldn't get into trouble."

"Uh huh," John's tone revealed his disbelief in Dean's motivations.

Bobby shook his head again, this was quickly spiraling out of his control. "Fine, hell's a bad word." He pushed passed the quick smile that passed over Dean's face, "Now, get the heck outta my house."

"Is heck the same thing as hell?" Dean questioned, crinkling his nose in annoyance as Sam continued to tug on him.

"Dean!" John shouted in exasperation. He didn't have very many qualms about Dean saying hell; but, it did seem like something six-year olds shouldn't say. And, he thought that if Mary had heard him say it, she would have scolded him as well.

"Sorry," Dean shot out, finally contrite. Up until two years ago, his dad had never raised his voice at him. Sure, he had heard his mom and dad fighting every once in a while, but it had never been directed at him. It was two weeks after the fire when his dad yelled at him for the first time. He hadn't said a word since his mom died, he just followed his dad around like a silent shadow. Sam on the other hand, didn't stop crying. They had been checked into the motel, a far cry from his old bedroom, about three hours while his dad poured through some arcane books when he finally blew.

Running off of a few hours of sleep every couple of nights, John had snapped, "Damn it, Dean. Will you take care of your brother!?"

This didn't get Dean speaking again, but it pushed him to go into the makeshift kitchen and awkwardly pour some formula into a bottle. He didn't know if he was doing it right, but he had watched his mom do it enough times that he thought it looked okay.

Since then, he had learned to respond to his dad when he rose his voice.

"Look," John ran a hand through his hair, giving Bobby a slightly pleading look. It was not an easy job for John Winchester to humble himself in front of anyone. "I need some help here. They're good boys, they won't get in the way. You won't even know they're here."

Bobby should have known as he shifted his glance between the eldest Winchester and the two boys, the youngest of whom was now giggling happily as his brother finally gave in and was picking him up, that John Winchester had just issued the biggest lie of his life.

* * *

"I don't wanna hear it," Dean grumbled, knowing from experience that he was about to get a lecture.

Over the past few weeks, he had been an ass. Perfected being one actually. He was short-tempered when Bobby and Sam tried to talk to him, he wasn't eating any real food because it was oddly difficult to get food from the plate, to the fork, and then his mouth. He was also refusing to go anywhere besides the bathroom, which was a straight shot down the hall, first door on the right.

"Well, sometimes what ya want ain't what you need," Bobby reasoned, settling back against the couch.

"I don't need it either," Dean insisted.

"Too bad," Bobby barked. It was time they stopped tip toeing around Dean, it wasn't helping him any. "Look, I get that you're..."

"No, you don't get it, Bobby!" Dean said, wanting nothing more than to get up and storm out of the room. "There's no way that you could get it!"

"You're right," Bobby conceded. "But, that doesn't mean I don't care, that Sam doesn't care. You gotta start taking better care of yourself. If your sight comes back, that's great; but you don't get to lay in my living room dyin' until we know one way or the other. So, today you're gonna get your ass off my couch, you're gonna go shower, and then you are going to eat some real damn food."

"No, I'm not," Dean denied stubbornly. Stubborn obstinance was better than admitting his fear. Before the fire, he had taken comfort in the half-moon nightlight that his mom had put in his room. He never told her that he was afraid of the dark, but she had noticed that every night he would hop off of his bed and ease his door open to allow the hallway light to permeate the darkness.

After the fire, it became his responsibility to look after Sam. He didn't have the luxury of being afraid of the dark. His dad taught him how to make the things hiding in the shadows fear him, not the other way around.

And now? Now he couldn't escape it. No matter how hard he tried, how long he strained his eyes, he couldn't even make out changes in light. To rub salt into the injury, any time that he thought about his situation for too long, he started to panic. What if all those things lurking in the dark finally came knocking on his door, knowing that he could no longer fight them back?

"Boy, you stink worse than Rumsfeld after a run in with a skunk," Bobby goaded, hoping he wouldn't have to physically push and shove Dean into the shower.

The sour look on Dean's face would have been funny if it wasn't so obviously hiding his anxiety. "Bobby," he tried.

"Sorry, Dean," Bobby slapped him lightly on the arm and stood up. "I can't stand the stench anymore."

Sam held up a cup of coffee in acknowledgement as Bobby made his way over.

"Thanks," he said quietly, taking the offering. Then at a normal volume, he declared, "I'm gonna fix something else for dinner, since apparently my chicken isn't good enough anymore."

Then, back to a whisper, "Make sure he gets in the shower."

Sam nodded and walked over to hand Dean the protein shake that had become a staple in his diet. "I'm gonna go make sure there are towels in the bathroom, then I'll just be out here researching if you need anything."

"Dude, it's just a shower, I don't need you to hold my hand," Dean said as he took a sip of the drink. _Tastes like chocolate my ass_.

"Trust me, I want to keep what you do in the shower a mystery," Sam teased lightly.

"Uh huh," Dean tried for unconvinced.

Sam watched for the moment that Dean finished the drink and then urged, "Shower time!"

"God, you are such a woman!" Dean grumbled, trying to put it off a little longer. He was fairly confident with his path to the bathroom, but he knew Sam was going to watch him closely and he didn't want to accidentally run into anything.

"Hey, you're the one who doesn't want to get your hair wet," Sam countered. Dean was right, Sam did track his progress all the way to the bathroom, noting how one of Dean's hands was constantly in contact with a wall, or a stack of books. When Dean made it to the bathroom and closed the door, Sam forced himself to return to the book he had in his hands.

* * *

_Okay, Dean, it's a shower. You've taken at least ten of these in your life. Piece of cake. Better yet, piece of pie. _

Dean told Sam that he could handle showering, but once he closed the door behind him, he wasn't so sure. Feeling his way over to the counter, Dean quickly found the towel that Sam said he was putting in there. Well, at least he could check off that step.

Pivoting on his heels and walking forward towards the shower, he miscalculated how far away the bathtub was from the counter and slammed his toes into the old porcelain basin.

"God damn it!" He shouted before he could stop himself.

As if he was standing right outside the door waiting for Dean to need his help, Sam immediately called out, "Dean, are you okay!?"

Releasing his breath in a huff, Dean nearly growled, "I'm fine, leave me alone."

He could almost hear Sam shuffling, unsure about whether he should leave or not. Finally, all sounds from outside the door ceased and Sam either moved back to the living room or was playing silent statue.

Taking another calming breath, Dean waved his arm around in the area he thought the facet was. Finally, his hand knocked into it and he pulled it on.

_Water on, now clothes. _Dean made quick work of stripping off his now grimy clothes. He had spent over 25 years taking them off, sometimes when he couldn't even walk in a straight line. Sight was definitely not needed to take sweatpants off.

Out of all the things that hadn't changed since the hunt, not checking the water temperature wasn't one he had considered. He could never be bothered to take the two seconds to make sure that he wasn't jumping into flesh melting water, or preparing an ice bath. He didn't even think to reach his hand underneath the water stream before he braced himself on the wall and quickly stepped into the shower.

"Holy shhhhh..." Dean ended in a hiss as he scrambled to reach the facet, trying to ignore the feeling of ice cubes being pelted at him. It took longer than normal to get the temperature under control simply because he couldn't find the facet. It was stupid really. If he had his eyesight and was just closing his eyes, he was sure that he would have been able to find it immediately.

Once he got the temperature where he wanted it, Dean leaned against the shower wall and just let the water pour over him. It was easier to forget that he couldn't see anything when he didn't move to much. Also, it wasn't like he usually kept his eyes open while his head was under the water, so he could pretend that it was just a normal, everyday shower.

After about five minutes, Dean decided it was time to get with the actual showering. Thankfully, him and Sam where the only people who ever stayed with Bobby for any extended period, so he didn't have to worry about there being a lot of products in the shower. Really, there was only a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap that Sam had left a washcloth near.

_Alright, this is easy. Shampoo in hand, hand to hair, rub around. _Dean hissed as the lather from the shampoo oozed down his forehead and into his eyes. "Okay," he mumbled, forcing his eyes to stay open as he let the water run into them, "Shampoo in the eyes still hurts."

The rest of his washing went quickly. When he was washing his face, he scratched contemplatively at the hair that he found growing there, but decided that the shower was improvement enough. He didn't want to face the challenge of running a sharp razor over his face until he absolutely had to.

Quickly rubbing the towel over his arms, Dean wrapped it around his waist and felt along the bathroom wall until he reached the door. He was preparing to holler at Sam to grab him some clothes when his toes touched a pile that was sitting near the door.

"Thanks, Sammy," he whispered, grabbing up the clothes. As he tugged the shirt down over his head, he hoped that Sam wasn't dressing him in something stupid.

An hour after he began, Dean emerged from the steam filled bathroom, looking cleaner and more awake than he had been for weeks.

"Well, you still look a bit like a homeless bum, but you smell a million times better," Sam teased, pleased when one corner of Dean's lips tilted upwards for half a second; it wasn't exactly doubling-over in laughter, but it was something.

Dean's almost kinda pleasant mood was ruined the moment Bobby came into the living room carrying a bowl of chili. "Take two."

And the scowl was back.

"Not hungry," Dean said shortly, lowering himself on the couch.

"Bull," Bobby bit out, shoving the bowl into Dean's hands before he could fold his arms over his chest to cut himself off. He waited until Dean's fingers curled around the edges before he let go. "Spoon's in the bowl, have at it."

Dean scraped one of his fingers along the edge of the bowl until he felt the spoon, but he didn't pick it up. "Bobby..."

Showering was one thing. No one could see him fumble, if he didn't grab the soap on the first try, it didn't matter. But, if he messed up while eating, how pathetic was that? It really shouldn't be that difficult to get food to his mouth, lord knew he had a lot of practice eating. But, the extension of the spoon didn't make it easier.

Even how he gripped the spoon felt wrong. The first time he tried to use a utensil after the hunt, he had spilled soup all down his front because he couldn't find his mouth. It was slow and clumsy and he hated it.

So, he pushed the spoon around the bowl rather than picking it up.

"Sam, why don't you go take care of that load of laundry downstairs," Bobby ordered more than suggested. He knew that his attempts to get Sam out of the room were obvious, but sometimes Sam hovered too much, wanted to help too much. Dean needed help, but he also had to figure out how to get by on his own.

Dean also wanted Sam to leave. In fact, if he wanted to go hole up in a motel a few hundred miles away, that wouldn't be such a bad idea.

Sam knew when he was being dismissed and he thought about arguing. Dean had taken care of him for his entire life, it was time to return the favor. However, looking at tension that was coursing through his brother, he could tell that Dean wanted him gone. That didn't mean he had to be happy about it though. "Yeah," he replied a bit moodily, "I'll be back in a few."

Once Sam's legs carried him away from the room, Dean stopped chasing the spoon around and let his shoulders slump.

"Boy, if anyone can find a way to get food into their mouth, it's you," Bobby teased lightly, clapping Dean on the back and taking his leave as well.

Dean didn't need an audience. He was right earlier when he told Sam that he wasn't four. They didn't need to worry about him choking on his food and they weren't going to spoon feed him. So, it was time to let him figure this out on his own.

But, remembering the chicken and mashed potatoes that he and Sam had to clean up while Dean was in the shower, Bobby called over his shoulder, "And there'd better not be any chili on my walls when I come back or I won't care if you're deaf, dumb and blind, I'll beat your ass!"


End file.
